No Sleep In Brooklyn
by porticosdaughter
Summary: A GreaseWest Side Story crossover. Frenchy heads to New York after quitting her job at Woolworth's.


The last straw came when that guy came in. This disgusting guy, maybe in his mid-twenties, covered in acne… He came into Woolworth's and made a beeline for the makeup counter.

"Heya, chicky," he said to Frenchy with a nasty leer. "You demonstrating makeup?"

She grit her teeth and nodded.

"Well, go on, make me bea-utiful!" he said, leaning in far too close for comfort.

Frenchy recalled her conduct training from when she'd first started the job.

"Sir," she began politely, "please step away."

"What?" said the guy, getting even closer to her.

"PLEASE.. step away…" she repeated shrilly. He did not. So she did what anyone with brand-new inch-long nails would do, and scratched his eyes. The ugly sonofabitch yowled and leapt back. It was at that opportune moment that Frenchy's boss chose to appear.

"What's going on here?" Mrs. Hayworth demanded.

"He… I…" French stuttered.

"That crazy witch tried to scratch my eyes out!" bellowed the guy.

Mrs. Hayworth turned to Frenchy. "Francine, is this true?"

From that moment, Frenchy acted without being conscious of any will to do what she did. "Yeah, I did, and I'm glad I did, the nasty bastard, and I don't care if you fire me because I QUIT!" With that, she stormed out, leaving Mrs. Hayworth stunned. The guy followed French out into the parking lot, where she promptly pulled a small handgun out of her purse and aimed it at him.

"Back, the fuck, away," she instructed. He did so.

Frenchy ran homeward as if by instinct, stumbling from time to time in her high heels. By the time she reached her street, it occurred to her that the old man would be considerably hacked off at the news of her being fired. No problem—Sandy's house was right there next door.

"Frenchy?" Sandy opened the door in curlers and a set of slinky pajamas. "What's going on? This is… kind of a bad time…"

"Baby, who's that!" Danny's voice came from inside the house. Simultaneously, a car pulled into the driveway. Sandy's eyes widened.

"Shit, parents! Frenchy, get in here quick."

Frenchy found herself being yanked into the Dumbrowski living room and greeted with the sight of Danny Zuko's rubber ducky boxers. On the floor.

"Danny. Parents. Get your clothes and get in the bathroom. NOW!" Sandy was in no mood to be reckoned with, and Danny promptly disappeared with threads in hand. Sandy grabbed Frenchy by the wrist and yanked her down onto the couch, where she picked up a movie magazine and in an instant looked as though she'd been sitting there for hours. The front door opened and Sandy's parents walked in, both dressed to the nines and more than a little tipsy.

"Hi, Mommy, hi, Daddy," Sandy said in her sweetest voice. "Did you have fun at the party?"

"Yes, honey. Now Daddy hash to pish." Mr. Dumbrowski made toward the closed bathroom door…

"No!" Sandy yelped.

"Why not?" Mr. Dumbrowski asked, sounding as though he'd been struck.

"Because… well… Mommy?"

Mrs. Dumbrowski, who had removed one shoe but not the other, hobbled over to the couch.

"Yes, Sandy Jean?"

"Well…" Sandy whispered something in her mother's ear.

"Oh. Of course. All right then. Dear, why don't you use the guest bathroom?"

Mr. Dumbrowski frowned, then shrugged. "All right."

After both parents had gone, Frenchy turned to Sandy with a raised eyebrow.

"What did you tell her?"

Sandy shrugged.

"Oh, I just said that you'd bled through your panties and were soaking them in the sink."

Frenchy's mouth dropped open, but before she could say anything, a now-fully-clad Danny Zuko raced from the bathroom to the front door and slammed it behind him. A second later, the doorbell rang. Sandy answered it, and there stood Danny.

"Hi, Sandy. Can I come in?"

"No, silly, it's too late to have boys over!"

"OK, baby," said Danny. He gave her a quick peck on the lips and left.

"That was weird," Frenchy remarked.

"Whatever do you mean, Francine, jelly-bean?" Sandy, who seemed a bit giddy, replied as she climbed over the back of the couch and resumed her seat. Frenchy shook her head.

"So how's freshman year at Columbia?"

"Oh, you know," Sandy sighed. "It's OK. Everybody else is living in the dorms… well, no. There are a few other people still staying with their parents. But it's a little… I dunno. You know?" She shrugged. "How's that job at Woolworth's?"

"Actually, that's kinda why I'm here, Sandy… See, I quit. And I realized that I'd been wanting to quit for a long time. An' I'm sick to death of livin' with my old man. He's always on my case. Well, I was thinkin'…" She trailed off.

"What is it, French?" Sandy looked genuinely concerned now.

"Well, uh…. You know I got family in Brooklyn, and I was thinking of going up there and staying with them. Until I can find my own place. In New York."

"Gee, French. What are you gonna do? I mean, work." Sandy curled up on the couch and adjusted her curlers.

"Well, I could always be a chain store daisy. I mean, I got experience. No references, though… guess my old boss wouldn't be too keen on recommending me now."

"How come?"

So Frenchy explained about the nasty guy and the scratching and the gun… Sandy listened, her big eyes growing even bigger, until her friend was done talking. She took a deep breath and said:

"Yeah, I guess you'd better get out of town."

"Or," Frenchy continued, "maybe I could try to get into beauty college in New York. Maybe they have a better one there than La Coiffure. I dunno. I just gotta get outta here. You know anybody heading that way?"

Sandy pondered for a moment. "Not off the top of my head… but Frenchy, don't hitchhike! It's dangerous. You could get raped, or killed, or both!"

"Don't worry, I'm not gonna… but I can't afford to take the train."

"Wait! I remember now. Riz and Kenickie are going to Boston to visit Riz's grandmother. That's not too far from New York, is it?"

"Gee, I dunno…"

And that's how Frenchy found herself slightly carsick in the back of Greased Lightning, heading east from Chicago, the only city she'd known her whole life. They drove for a whole day, flying down the highway with the top down and Kenickie pounding the gas. By nightfall they'd made it to New York City.

"I'll get a taxi to my aunt's place," Frenchy assured Rizzo and Kenickie, despite their half-hearted protests. Both were exhausted at that point and still had a good five hours left to go, so they said their good-byes and drove off. Frenchy hailed a cab, praying that the little money she had would be enough for the fare.

"Where to?" said the cabby without even looking around at her.

"Uh… the Eichmann residence, Brooklyn." The cabby looked nonplussed. "Uh… George and Tracy Eichmann?" He just stared at her. "That's their names," she added lamely.

"You got an address you can give me, sweetheart?"

"No… Should I?"

The cabby laughed. "Well, yeah… how else do you expect me to find it? You ever ridden in a taxi before, doll?"

"Sure, a couple of times, but… Doody always said where to go. And he never said directions, it was always 'the Public Library' or 'the Burger Palace'."

The man scratched his head. "Well, uh… you wanna go to a boiga joint I can get you to a boiga joint. But I don' know these Eichmanns."

"Uh… no thanks. Sorry if I took up your time." Frenchy got out of the cab. The driver shook his head and drove off. Doody… she hadn't thought about him in months. He left her shortly after graduation to go dance in a drag show at some downtown club. Well. If it was an address she needed… there had to be a phone booth around somewhere, and she could ask the operator. Thing is, Frenchy hadn't actually called her aunt and uncle before leaving. She had only gone back to her house long enough to stuff her most treasured belongings into a large book bag, and anyway, she'd never even met these relatives and certainly didn't know their phone number. All she remembered was snippets of conversation, a mention that they lived in Brooklyn. Feeling stupid and scared, Frenchy found a payphone. The operator had no idea who the Eichmanns were. So, feeling stupider and more scared than ever, Frenchy sat on the ground outside the phone booth and cried.

"Chhallo, girril, you cchokay?" The accented voice above her got her attention. Frenchy looked up at the tall, skinny young man standing in front of her and nodded.

"Do chyou need chhalp?"

"You a Russki?" she blurted out.

The boy—not so much a boy, really, he had to be at least twenty—looked blank.

"I aim Moose," he said after a moment. "I aim Russia."

Now, Frenchy hadn't spent all that time in elementary school doing nuclear bomb drills and diving under her desk with her hands over her head for nothing.

"Communist!" she gasped. "You're a Communist! Oh my God…"

Instead of being angry, Moose looked saddened. "I aim no Kommunist. I chhate the Kommunist. Iss vhy I leaf Russia. Iss vhy I leaf my poor old mother aind father. Aind my leetle sister." He turned away.

"I'm sorry…" Frenchy felt suddenly guilty.

Moose turned around and grinned. "No, I aim kidding you. I leaf Russia becouse my wchhole faimily doess. But I born there. But… I aim still no Kommunist. I like America, you know? Yaye democracy!"

"Do you know where the Eichmanns live? In Brooklyn?"

He frowned. "Maybe. Vat you need iss Doc. He tell you. You vant know about me, Pinky?"

Frenchy was suddenly very conscious of her candy-pink hair. Second time she'd made that mistake with tinting. That last time, she couldn't afford to correct it.

"I'm Frenchy, actually," she said, standing up and nervously patting her disheveled bouffant. Moose looked impressed.

"Your Eenglish iss very good, I can not tell you are French. Vone off my neighbors, he is French and his Eenglish not so good."

"No, I'm American—Frenchy's my name. Well, it's my nickname. I'm from Chicago."

"Oh, Chicago! Windy city, yayss? Wait. Your name iss Nick?"

"My nickname's Frenchy. Nickname, you know. Like, Moose is your nickname. It's not your real name, is it?"

He seemed to understand. "Ah, yayss, I see. My real nayme iss Fyodor. But Bernardo…" here Moose paused and looked sad again for a moment… "Bernardo say, you look layke big moose. Aind I chhannot say Fyodor. (Iss vat he say, I can say my own nayme.) So he say, you Moose now."

Frenchy's curiosity got the best of her.

"Who's Bernardo?" she asked.

"Vell, Pinky," said Moose with a smile, "you come vith me and I tell you. And then ve find Doc and he tell you this Eichmann place."

She shrugged and followed him away from the phone booth, around the corner and down a broad, well-lit but quiet street.

"Now, I aim Russia. Iss vat I tell you. But all my fraynds in America are Porto-Reecan, yayss? Vell, except Nibbles. Nibbles is Kayuba."

"Cuba?"

"Yayss, iss vat I say. Kayuba. So. All Porto-Reecan. There are the two …" He stopped and looked suspiciously at her. "I should not tell you that. No. OK. So… there are here the Porto-Reecans, plus me aind Nibbles, and then all the boys who vas born here. They do not like us. The boys who vas born here, there daddies are Poles and Italian and Irish, but they are all-American, yes-sirree. And they do not like us. Ven I come to America I am fourteen yearss old, so the all-American boys they say, you Hunyak go avay. But Bernardo iss my friend. Vell, he vas. He is daid now."

"Gosh, I'm sorry," Frenchy said earnestly.

"Yayss, vell. Iss not so bad for me. I aim sad for Anita. She vas hiss girl. And Bernardo's sister, Maria. She vas a Jet's girl. I mean. Yayss." He seemed to have caught himself slipping somehow and cleared his throat repeatedly before going on. "Her boy vas all-American boy, you know? Bad idea, leetle missy. But you know, you fall in love and yadda yadda. But he daid too and I'm glad, the bastard. Eef Bernardo hass to be daid, then that leetle sheet hass to be daid too. Yayss, vell. Ve are not supposed to fight anymore. Chino sayss. But I steel hayte them." This last thought seemed more to himself than to Frenchy.

They had come to a drugstore that appeared to be closed, but when Moose knocked on the door, a small, balding man answered and let them in.


End file.
